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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22723810">The End Comes Near</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haberdasher/pseuds/Haberdasher'>Haberdasher</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(sort of), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, Ants, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Injury, Bugs &amp; Insects, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Canonical Character Death, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Dreams and Nightmares, End Avatar Martin Blackwood, End Martin, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, Gen, Ghost Martin Blackwood, Ghosts, Guilt, Injury, Martin Blackwood Needs a Hug, Matter of Life and Death, Mild Blood, Minor Injuries, Nightmares, POV Martin Blackwood, Panic Attacks, Trauma, Worms, more tags to come as i figure out what i'm doing with this au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 16:13:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,234</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22723810</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haberdasher/pseuds/Haberdasher</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Jon isn’t entirely wrong when he asks if Martin is a ghost in episode 39.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood &amp; Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood &amp; Not Sasha James</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>167</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Martin…You’re not, uh… You didn’t die here, did you?”</p><p>That was an absurd question... wasn’t it?</p><p>Martin wanted to laugh, even if doing so was likely to antagonize Jon further. Jon had only admitted that he believed in the supernatural like five seconds ago, and now Jon was accusing him of being... what, a ghost, or something? Seriously?</p><p>Some part of him reminded him of the handful of holes he had in his memories, but it was fine, he was <em>fine</em>, maybe he’d forgotten some less-than-pleasant bits of his childhood and unfortunate consequences of his eternal clumsiness but everybody forgets things sometimes, and whatever he may have forgotten over the years, he was pretty sure <em>dying</em> wasn’t on the list.</p><p>So why was he so hesitant to just give Jon a flat “no” and laugh in his face about it?</p><p>“I don’t think so.” Martin managed after a couple seconds.</p><p>Jon sighed the exact sort of exasperated sigh that Martin knew well enough to expect from such an awkward answer. “Martin. It’s a yes-or-no question. <em>Did you die here</em>?”</p><p>“I mean, I think I’d <em>know</em> if I died here, right?” Martin let out a shaky laugh, knowing that he was dodging the question but still not entirely sure why. “Unless this is, is the kind of ghost story where people just go about their business after they’re dead, only know they’ve died if somebody points it out... but in that case, who’s to tell, hmm?”</p><p>Jon closed his eyes and pressed one hand against the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t intend for this to become a <em>philosophical debate</em>-”</p><p>“You’re the one who asked me if I was dead!” Martin didn’t hold back the laugh this time, even though it made Jon wince a little. “As far as I know, I’m not a- a <em>ghost</em>, okay? This place is just weird, that’s all.”</p><p>“...right. Of course.”</p><p>“...did you really think I was a <em>ghost</em>?”</p><p>“Shut up, Martin.” A phrase Jon had thrown at him... dozens, maybe hundreds of times by now. That’s how it felt, anyway. Said no different than the rest, either, no more meaningful despite the context of their current situation.</p><p>Was that the last thing Jon was going to say to him before something really <em>did</em> happen to one of them? Not exactly the best parting words there...</p><p>And why was there part of Martin that thought the idea of himself being a ghost was worth more examination than a quick laugh and dismissal?</p><p>Well. At the very least, Martin figured he could reserve his existential angst, or, or <em>whatever</em> it was, for a time when he wasn’t actively in danger of being eaten by worms. Not that that decision did anything to lighten the mood in there...</p><p>Honestly, when Tim broke down the wall and started to strip down while high on carbon dioxide, it came as something of a relief. Running through the tunnels wasn’t ideal, certainly, but Martin would take anything over lingering in that room, just waiting for the worms to break in.</p><p>And they were running together, at least, the three of them (where was Sasha? not in the tunnels, as far as they knew, but whether that was a blessing or a curse was yet to be seen) side by side, presenting a solid front against the horrors chasing after them...</p><p>...at least until Martin tripped.</p><p>He fell on the floor of the tunnels hard and heard more than saw the rock that had been his downfall (both metaphorically and literally) bounce off one of the walls before sliding to a stop. The others either didn’t notice or figured that they’d rather save themselves than risk their lives to help him up, because in a matter of moments they were nowhere to be seen. Martin couldn’t blame them if it was the latter, really. Better to have one life at risk than two or three.</p><p>Not that such logical conclusions were of much comfort when he could hear the worms wriggling closer as he struggled to push himself back up.</p><p>His knee had been hurt in the impact, that much was clear--not that badly, really, probably not as much as Jon was hurt with his limp and all, but enough that it slowed him down further, made getting up that much harder, and by the time he did-</p><p>Well. Just as his friends hadn’t hesitated to keep moving when he’d fallen, neither had the worms.</p><p>There weren’t as many here in the tunnels as there had been back in the archives proper, but there were enough, and their greater speed down here meant that the minute or so of running that Martin had lost by falling was still far too long. As he stood up, gingerly testing how much weight he could bear on his injured knee, one of the worms leaped up--far higher than any normal worm could, Martin was sure of that, but then, it was obvious enough by now that these were far from ordinary worms--and landed on Martin’s arm.</p><p>Martin looked away, focusing his attention on an unexceptional bit of the tunnel wall. He didn’t want to see what happened next, wanted to avoid confronting the inevitable for as long as possible. He knew the stories well enough by now. He knew what getting bitten by one of them meant, especially without help, especially when more were on their way. He knew the kind of fate he had in store now.</p><p>Maybe if he was lucky, the worms would just kill him.</p><p>A few seconds went by, and Martin didn’t feel anything, but he knew that didn’t mean much. Sasha hadn’t felt the worm burrowing into her arm before that “Michael” took it out of her, after all. And that statement from Jane Prentiss herself... she seemed to know <em>something</em> was going on, but not that- that she was being consumed by worms, and it must have started already by that point...</p><p>Martin wasn’t going to let himself go like that, though. If he was going to... to become some sort of worm monster, or whatever, he wanted to know about it. Maybe if he acted fast, he could even get the worm out himself with the corkscrew, though as luck would have it it had attacked his dominant arm, so that would be easier said than done...</p><p>After taking a deep breath and steeling himself, Martin looked at the arm that the worm had leaped onto, prepared for the worst.</p><p>There was no sign of any injury at all. No broken skin, no... <em>wriggling</em> underneath the flesh... nothing. His arm looked as good as new.</p><p>Martin’s gaze drifted slightly as he continued to examine himself, and he saw that directly below his arm, there was a worm lying still on the ground. A gentle prod with his foot yielded no response from the thing.</p><p>Was it dead, then? If so, then the question was what had killed it. Maybe the CO2 had reached down here, acted at just the right moment, but Martin doubted it. That would be a bit too convenient.</p><p>Further examination revealed that a few more dead worms lie around Martin, forming a rough, incomplete circle around where he had fallen. Briefly Martin wondered if it was over, if Jane Prentiss was dead and the Institute safe, but then he saw another worm crawling energetically across the floor, though for some reason it gave him a wide berth as it passed by.</p><p>Worms had attacked him, and they had died in the process before causing him any harm (as far as he could tell), and now those still living wanted nothing to do with him...</p><p>Martin let out a dark laugh as he said to himself, “Maybe I am a ghost after all.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin knew better than to assume that he was entirely out of harm’s way just because the worms weren’t actively going after him right this moment, but at the very least, it gave him a moment to take a few deep breaths (doing his best to ignore the pungent smell of the worm carcasses around him as he did so) and take stock of his current situation, much as the adrenaline in his system was urging him to pick a random direction and run before it was too late.</p><p>He was in the tunnels under the Archives. He still had the torch he’d gotten into the habit of carrying around, thankfully--and it hadn’t gone out when he’d dropped it in the fall, either, which was a small blessing, because this place was creepy enough without it being pitch black to boot--and his corkscrew, but not much else on hand. Jon and Tim were somewhere in the tunnels too, presumably, but he had no idea where besides “ahead of him”, and the way the previous passages had forked and curved as they had passed through left Martin convinced that such vague information was next to useless down here.</p><p>Martin took a brief moment to call out Jon and Tim’s names, on the off-chance that they were within earshot, might hear his call and return to his side.</p><p>No such luck, which wasn’t really much of a surprise. What was more of a surprise was that his cry didn’t even echo through the extended corridors of the tunnels, the quiet filling the space once more immediately after Martin ceased speaking. Vaguely disappointing, that, calling out into a nice big space like this and not even getting an echo out of the bargain.</p><p>His knee was, upon closer examination under the torchlight, not really that badly banged up. It was scraped, sure, a bit of blood in there, could probably use some peroxide and a few bandages when he was out of here, but hardly a serious wound. It hurt to walk on it, a small twinge of pain hitting him whenever he moved the knee, but what mattered right now was that he <em>could</em> walk on it, could probably even run on it if need be.</p><p>There were about half a dozen silvery worm carcasses forming a rough semi-circle around where Martin had fallen, which he still didn’t know what to make of, but right now he wasn’t especially tempted to look that gift horse in the mouth.</p><p>And Martin had no idea how to get from where he was back into the Archives proper.</p><p>He could run forwards, try to catch up with Jon and Tim, but even if they weren’t far ahead of him by now, odds were decent that he’d choose the wrong path the first or second or fifth time the tunnels branched off and he’d be no closer to them than he had been before.</p><p>He could try retracing his steps, but he hadn’t exactly been focusing on which turns he’d been making when running for his life, and trying to recreate them all could easily backfire as well.</p><p>Standing still had to be the worst option of all, though. The others might not guarantee that he’d get back out of the tunnels, but standing around doing nothing would ensure that he’d remain there, lost and alone and surrounded by worms both living and dead. Unless somebody came back for him, he supposed, but the odds of that were far lower than he wanted for something upon which his plan would rely.</p><p>After a bit of thinking and weighing his options, Martin decided to press forward, choosing which branch to take when he inevitably reached a fork in the road by just picking whichever direction felt right. Even as he implemented this plan, he could hear Jon in his head berating him for trusting what could be life-or-death decisions to his gut, but there was no clear way of logic-ing his way into figuring out where he was in relation to the Archives or anyone else, and he didn’t have any helpful tools for navigating like a map or a compass or even chalk to write on the walls with, so when it came down to it, <em>Jon</em>, going off a gut feeling couldn’t really be any worse than the alternative of going off of nothing at all.</p><p>The tunnels didn’t seem to change much, just stone walls stretching on and on. It was nigh-impossible to tell if he was getting closer to or further from the Archives, or even if he was just going in circles for hours on end. Martin tried to look for little things that would distinguish one bit of the tunnels from another, and there were a few--some had higher ceilings than others, some had stone walls that were more regular and brick-like while others appeared almost like natural rock formations--but even with these, it was impossible for Martin to make a mental map of the tunnels, or even to consistently tell whether he was in a part that he’d been in before. The only thing that really stood out was the set of stairs he found at one point, steep stone stairs leading downwards in a spiral that kept going until his torchlight gave way to darkness, but the last thing Martin wanted to do was descend further into the abyss, so those stairs weren’t really of much help to him except as a landmark that he only encountered the once.</p><p>The worms stopped showing up as frequently as they had been, appearing less and less until several minutes would pass between him spying a single one. This should have been a good thing. Martin knew that, logically, having less of the deadly supernatural flesh worms around was a good thing. But he had a pit in his stomach just the same, as he kept thinking that the worms were going after the Institute, so if there were no worms he must be far from the Institute now, far from getting back, far from getting <em>out</em>...</p><p>There was more dust, in this part of the corridors, and while there were fewer worms either alive or dead around there, Martin spotted more than one dead rat in the passages. There was other debris, too, things that were harder to explain away as natural--a few wine bottles, all empty, and what Martin would swear was a pack of mint imperials, even though that didn’t make <em>sense, </em>nobody knew about this place, let alone would sit around eating mint imperials in it...</p><p>Martin was trying to get back to where he had been, where there was less in the way of dust and more in the way of worms, even before he heard an ear-piercing, hideous scream ring out, saw only dead and shriveled worms on the ground from there on out, and knew Prentiss was dead and gone and the worm threat was well and truly over with.</p><p>Martin flung open the first door he saw, an unobtrusive thing sitting in the middle of the stone wall like it belonged there, and took a few steps forward without giving it a second thought. It felt right, it felt like he was getting somewhere, back to the Institute--or, or perhaps into some other building, given how long he’d been walking through the tunnels now, but he would take that at this point, would take a lot over continuing to wander aimlessly through the tunnels.</p><p>The door didn’t lead to the Institute, though, although the cassette tapes scattered about in thin cardboard boxes looked like the kind Jon was using in the Archives now; the dust covering everything in the small, square room made it clear that it wasn’t any kind of working space, and almost certainly hadn’t been touched for years before Martin trudged his way inside there. There wasn’t much to the room, really, besides those boxes of tapes and a plain wooden chair in the middle, upon which sat-</p><p>Somehow, Martin registered that the person sitting in the chair was Gertrude Robinson, missing former head of the Institute’s archives, a split second before registering that he was looking at a corpse, the gap between the two thoughts just long enough for him to form a half-baked speculation about her being a ghost before he spied the three gunshot wounds on her chest and realized that no, she was just plain dead, and not killed by some supernatural boogie monster, either.</p><p>The worms weren’t an issue anymore, sure, but somebody knew about these tunnels, somebody with a gun, somebody who had killed the previous head archivist, and who could say if that somebody was still on the loose...</p><p>Martin could feel his heart racing as he sprinted out of the room, desperate to get away from the dust and the tapes and the dead body of Gertrude Robinson.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If some of this dialogue sounds familiar, it's because several lines were lifted wholesale from MAG 040: Human Remains, with changes and adaptations made to fit what happened in the fic rather than in canon.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon looked like shit.</p><p>Martin knew why, of course, and he wasn’t judging, exactly. He was sure he didn’t look his best either at the moment, and he’d managed to avoid the worst of the worms’ wrath... somehow... with only a scraped knee to show for his troubles. Jon and Tim evidently hadn’t been so lucky.</p><p>Martin wondered, distantly, what would have happened if he hadn’t tripped in the tunnels, if he had been there alongside Jon and Tim to face the brunt of Prentiss’ attack. Would the worms have gotten over whatever had stopped them from... from injuring him when they’d gone after him in the tunnels, leaving Martin in as bad of shape as Jon and Tim now were? Or would the worms have died en masse in the attack, all of them that touched Martin perishing in the attempt like their comrades in the tunnels? Could he have protected his coworkers from it all, at least a little bit?</p><p>Whatever the outcome might have been, though, it wasn’t what had actually happened, and it’s not like he’d <em>planned</em> on tripping down there. What was done was done, and that was that.</p><p>Though Jon evidently wasn’t done with it all just yet, based on his insistence on taking Martin’s statement <em>now</em>, rather than after both of them had the chance to get some rest, reflect on some things, clean up a little...</p><p>Honestly, it was downright <em>painful</em> to look at Jon, to know how much he must be suffering right now, and to know that stupid, stubborn Jon would insist on getting Martin’s statement on tape just the same, no matter how long it took, no matter how much Martin pleaded with him to just call it a night already.</p><p>He did try, at least.</p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p>“Fine. Painkillers are starting to wear off, but… it’s fine.”</p><p>It was not fine. It was obviously not fine, between the bloody holes that covered what looked to be the entirety of Jon’s body and the way he grimaced when he spoke. Martin wasn’t sure who Jon was trying to fool more, Martin or himself, but he doubted it was working much either way.</p><p>“Statement of Martin Blackwood, archival assistant, etcetera, etcetera. Go.”</p><p>It all really must have been getting to Jon, if he wasn’t even willing to say the full introduction before handing over the burden of speech to Martin. Jon was usually such a stickler for that kind of thing. Admittedly, Martin suspected that Jon had used the same tape when he’d pestered the rest of the staff into giving their respective statements, so the date and such would already be on it, but still... it wasn’t like Jon, to let something like that slip by the wayside, to just assume that he could flout a few technical requirements to save a bit of time. Usually it seemed like Martin was the one who’d try to find a way to cut through the formalities and Jon was the one who’d inevitably end up yelling at him for it.</p><p>He must really be hurting.</p><p>But Martin knew well enough that at this point, the only way he could help Jon was by telling his story as quickly as possible, get it over with sooner rather than later so they could all go get some rest.</p><p>“Right. Well, I was doing some background checks for case 0081709, when you and Sasha started screaming, so I went to ch-”</p><p>Jon interrupted, cutting Martin off without even a hint of hesitation, irritation evident in his voice. “Yes, yes, I was there! I was with you for almost the whole time, and <em>that</em> tape survived just fine.”</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>“Ah, it’s fine. I just… I only need from when you got separated. From when you got lost in the tunnels.”</p><p>“No, I mean...” Martin gulped as he considered his next words, though he was fairly certain both what the gist of them would be and that they probably weren’t strictly necessary. “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep up.”</p><p>Maybe it was silly, to apologize for tripping, to apologize rather than being the one apologized to when the others had been the ones who left him behind in the middle of the attack. But Martin had grown used to apologizing, over the years. Apologizing for mistakes, for accidents, for daring to take up space in the world... it came naturally at this point.</p><p>“...oh, Martin.”</p><p>And now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop, explaining and apologizing for actions that hadn’t been intentional in the first place but felt like some sort of grave error on his part all the same. “It was an accident. I mean, the worms came at us,  and they were so much faster, and then there was the gas, and the running, and I just… I, I tripped, there was a rock and it wasn’t even that big but it was big enough to do the trick I suppose, and I wanted to catch up but by the time I got up you were gone, you were both gone. It was an <em>accident</em>.”</p><p>“I know. It’s fine, Martin. Everybody’s…” Jon let out a long sigh. “Everyone’s fine… I just need you to tell me what happened next, and then it’s finished.”</p><p>“Fine” seemed like a bit of an overstatement, in Martin’s opinion, seeing what damage had been done to Jon and Tim (and there was still a voice in the back of his head saying that he could have, should have, done <em>something</em> to prevent it), but Jon had a point. All Martin had to do was explain his piece of the puzzle, and then it was all over with, at least for tonight. Then they could all go home. Then they could try to put this whole ordeal behind them.</p><p>“Alright. So, um, yeah, I tripped, scraped my knee a bit, and one of the worms actually jumped on my arm-”</p><p>Jon looked up from his gazing at the tape recorder, his eyes wide with a sharp clarity Martin was sure hadn’t been there a moment before. “Did the ECDC check you out?”</p><p>“Yes!” Martin said, perhaps a bit louder than necessary, and Jon nodded, his gaze slowly sinking back downwards. “But they didn’t need to, really, because the worm barely touched me. I looked away, just waiting for- well, for whatever came next, I suppose, and then I saw the worm was on the ground, still and dead. There were a few others laying dead there around where I’d fallen--I guess they must have gone after me and I hadn’t even noticed, and somehow that had killed them, too?”</p><p>Jon looked back up at Martin, but he didn’t say a word, though Martin could read well enough the curiosity in his eyes.</p><p>“Reminded me a bit of how you asked if I was a ghost, really. Ghosts can’t get eaten by worms, can they?”</p><p>Jon groaned quietly and made a show of looking anywhere besides at Martin, and despite everything, Martin found himself having to suppress a snort of laughter.</p><p>“So once I got up I, I tried shouting, but you didn’t answer...”</p><p>It was surprisingly easy to explain the rest from there. Martin felt like it would have been a lot harder if it was just a normal conversation he was having with Jon, like he would have tripped over half his words then, but it was different, somehow, with the tape recorder sitting between them. Like he was just another statement-giver, and it was his job to make sure what he had to say made sense, as much as any of this made sense to begin with.</p><p>Jon interjected once briefly, to help keep Martin on track, but he only really began asking questions once Martin reached the bit about finding Gertrude Robinson’s body.</p><p>“Martin, how did Gertrude Robinson die?”</p><p>Martin was pretty sure he knew how Gertrude Robinson had died; her injuries had been obvious enough, and he had left that room feeling a deep certainty as to the cause of death, though any details beyond that still eluded him. But the officers he had spoken to hadn’t appreciated his making assumptions, and Martin proceeded figuring that Jon probably wouldn’t either, especially given how thorough he was being about this whole thing.</p><p>“I don’t know. Not for sure. It was so dark, and I only saw the body for a few seconds. The police were quite clear that the cause of death could be absolutely any-”</p><p>“MARTIN!” Jon’s near-shouting startled Martin, shook him out of his previous train of thought. “How did she die?”</p><p>Martin’s answer came like a reflex. “She was shot! Three times, that I could see. Three shots to the chest.”</p><p>“Right. Right. Thank you, Martin.”</p><p>“...sure.” Martin didn’t feel like reporting a murder was something to be thanked for, but he was willing to accept it to keep the conversation moving just the same.</p><p>As Jon’s hand moved towards the tape recorder, preparing to turn it back off, Martin spoke up again.</p><p>“Er, I know it’s not strictly needed anymore, but can I keep living in the Archives?”</p><p>Jon’s finger rested atop the button to turn the tape recorder off as he stared at Martin as if he’d just grown a second head. “You want to stay in the Archives. Where there are thousands of rotting worm carcasses? <em>That</em> Archives?”</p><p>Martin could feel the blood draining from his face; he hadn’t actually thought through that angle of things just yet.</p><p>“Why would you <em>want</em> to, anyway?”</p><p>“Well, I keep thinking about when you asked if I was a ghost-”</p><p>Jon sighed, but Martin pressed on just the same.</p><p>“-and it’s true that I haven’t left the Institute’s building for some time now. I just keep thinking, what if you were right?”</p><p>“I was <em>joking</em>.”</p><p>Martin was quite sure that Jon’s question hadn’t been intended as a joke, and after a moment of uncertainty, decided to continue as if Jon hadn’t just claimed otherwise. “What if, if something happens to me when I try to leave?”</p><p>Jon pressed one hand against his temple, which had to be all kinds of unsanitary, given that both were covered with still-bloody worm holes. “You’re not a ghost, Martin. You’ll be fine. Just... just go home.”</p><p>Jon clicked off the tape recorder, and Martin considered how easily it could have been him telling Jon to go home already rather than vice versa, given the situation. It was probably just a weird bit of superstition that kept him wanting to stay in the building, or perhaps some variation of Stockholm Syndrome. Certainly, the last thing Martin wanted was to spend another night surrounded by worms, even if they were all dead already.</p><p>So Martin got up, collected what things he had around the office that hadn’t been utterly destroyed by the worm infestation, and went home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin hesitated as he approached the front door of the Institute, what belongings he’d kept stashed in the Archives all shoved into a depressingly-small bag he clutched with one hand as his other reached for the door.</p><p>If he <em>was</em> a ghost, somehow, which was a possibility Martin was more willing to continue entertaining than Jon seemed to be... well, Martin didn’t really know what that meant for him, but talking about how he couldn’t seem to bring himself to leave the Magnus Institute even at the risk of his own life had been what brought up the possibility in the first place.</p><p>Would there be some sort of force field he couldn’t pass through, preventing him and him alone from exiting the building?</p><p>Would going too far make him fade into nothingness, or kill him for real in an instant?</p><p>Martin took a deep breath--did ghosts even need to breathe?--and headed out the door.</p><p>No force field. No fading away. Just the heat and humidity of a sweltering summer night, which Martin hadn’t anticipated; sure, it was July now, he knew that logically, but some part of his mind still thought of the outside world as being stuck in February or March, given that he’d barely had a chance to interact with it since then, and the jumper he had on reflected that mindset rather than the reality of the weather outside.</p><p>How many months had it been, now, since Jane Prentiss had trapped him in his own flat, and since he’d subsequently been more or less trapped inside the Institute?</p><p>Martin tried to count and berated himself for struggling to come up with the answer immediately. This was basic maths, and he was still failing at it.</p><p>Jon was right. He needed to go home. Maybe sleeping on a proper bed again rather than a cot, sleeping without having to worry that Prentiss would attack at any minute, would help him make sense of it all.</p><p>The train ride back home--he’d gone to the Institute on foot the way there, ran straight from his flat the moment he first knew he could, but the adrenaline boost he’d gotten back in the tunnels had long since worn off, and it was late, and all he wanted to do was sit and let someone else take care of the details of getting from here to there--was... surreal, in that it managed to be both very familiar and oddly unfamiliar at the same time. It’d been a routine, yes, but one he hadn’t gone through in months, one that had started to fade from memory. Plus, Martin wasn’t sure whether some of his fellow Tube users were staring at him or if that was just his imagination. (He probably still had some blood on him, since he’d decided to save all cleaning up for after getting home, so Martin supposed the handful of bloodstains on him might be worth a stare or two.)</p><p>The walk home from his stop was uneventful, save for the time Martin swore he saw something in the shadows behind him, but when he turned around there was nothing... God, he needed a good night’s sleep, needed some rest, needed time to relax and stop seeing imaginary monsters after having evaded a real one...</p><p>He was half-expecting the power to still be out in his flat, like it had been for those thirteen long days when he had been trapped within it, but the light turned on when he flipped the switch, and while the place smelled a little, it didn’t have that distinctive musty worm smell he had grown to dread.</p><p>It was over. The worms were gone. Martin was <em>home</em>.</p><p>He felt like he should have been more relieved about that than he actually was.</p><p>As it was, he was just... tired. Tired and unsettled, despite knowing that what he’d been fearing for so long had come and gone, that he had nothing to fear from Jane Prentiss now.</p><p>Martin started examining his flat, though what he was looking for he couldn’t say. Just... something, anything, to explain why his fear was lingering, perhaps.</p><p>He was low on food, but he didn’t have much of an appetite at the moment anyway, so that was a problem that could wait for another day. All in all, the place was exactly as he’d left it the day Jane Prentiss had let him go, the day he’d ran at a full sprint to the Institute and never came back, for better or for worse. Lumpy couch, scratched kitchen table, outdated desktop computer... Not the perfect living space, but worlds better than a cot and a hastily-cleared space surrounding it in the Archives.</p><p>Then Martin saw the ants on his kitchen counter, and for a moment he froze, his brain moving much faster than his body.</p><p>It wasn’t Jane Prentiss. It <em>wasn’t</em> her. He knew that. She only ever seemed to work with worms, not ants. The ants didn’t look remarkable, either, weren’t big and silver and freakishly fast like the worms had been. They were little things, black or maybe a dark brown in color, with no particular destination apparent in their movement. He’d probably left some crumbs on the counter, or spilled something, or perhaps they’d just gotten into the rubbish he hadn’t thought to throw out before leaving. This wasn’t even the first time he’d had ants in his flat.</p><p>But they were still too close for comfort, and Martin didn’t want to go about his business knowing that dozens, maybe hundreds of ants were crawling around his kitchen, climbing on his belongings, getting up to who-knows-what...</p><p>Perhaps he should have gone to a store and gotten ant traps, or some sort of bug-killing spray, or even called an exterminator if he really got desperate. But Martin was tired, and he wanted the ants gone <em>now</em>, so he just rolled up one sleeve of his sweat-covered jumper and started smashing them.</p><p>It was oddly fulfilling, watching the ants scurry away from him, seeing the remains of those that hadn’t ran fast enough covering the counter. Martin didn’t think of himself as a violent person, was usually one to let critters outside instead of swatting at them, but he just kept attacking the ants, even went after ones near cracks in the wall that were clearly fleeing, until he couldn’t see any more to go after. Maybe it was because he’d spent so much time running from the worms instead of getting to actually kill them, or his fear had just turned to anger now that he had an appropriate target...</p><p>Only after the ants were all gone (out of sight, at least, whether killed or escaped), after Martin looked at his arm and saw dark insect limbs covering it, did he feel any regret at lashing out so rashly.</p><p>He sighed softly to himself before heading into the bathroom, washing his arm off and watching the ant limbs circle the drain before finally cleaning and bandaging his scraped knee, which really wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d thought it’d been in the heat of the moment, when the worms had been pressing down upon him in the tunnels. The brief sting of peroxide, a few plasters, and it was covered. It’d probably be good as new within the week.</p><p>It was fine. It was over, and he was home now, and it was all going to be fine.</p><p>Martin just wished he could get himself to believe as much as he sat in his own bed, softer and more comfortable by far than the Archive’s cot yet still strangely unfamiliar now, and tried to will himself into going to sleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It wasn’t much of a surprise to Martin that when he finally got to sleep, he ended up plagued with nightmares.</p><p>They were worm-themed nightmares, mostly, ones that mixed his actual experiences with them--being trapped in his flat, then trapped in one room in the Archives, then running for his life in the tunnels--with what could have happened if his luck had failed him--worms crawling freely across the floor of his flat, worms breaking down the door that kept him and Jon safe, worms digging under his skin and burrowing into his flesh when he tripped and fell.</p><p>He saw Jon over and over again in the dreams, even during the bits where Jon hadn’t actually been there in reality, which, god, if <em>that</em> didn’t say something awkward about his subconscious... well. It was sort of nice, really, having Jon there even when the logic of waking hours made it clear that he wouldn’t, couldn’t, have actually been present. At least Martin wasn’t facing the worms alone then.</p><p>There was pain in the nightmares, too, though most of it was that strange phantom pain that comes with dreams, registering that it <em>is</em> pain but not feeling quite like pain actually feels. His arm ached when the worm dug into it, but it felt ever so slightly off, ever so slightly wrong, even before waking. There were other aches, too, though, ones that were harder to pinpoint a source for. His neck, his back, his whole body thrummed with pain-not-pain in his dreams...</p><p>And then Martin would wake up in a cold sweat, and he’d be in his bed, back in his flat, not aching with pain and not surrounded by worms and without anyone (without <em>Jon</em>) watching over him.</p><p>It took a while for him to get back to sleep after that, especially once the cycle repeated, once he had established that all that further sleep was going to give him was worms and pain and terror.</p><p>Once it was morning and Martin had given up on the prospect of sleep entirely, he called the Institute and asked for the day off. Elias didn’t sound especially surprised by the request, though he also didn’t sound all that affected by the situation himself. Elias hadn’t been in the Archives, though, Martin supposed. Elias hadn’t seen the worst of it, hadn’t had to run for his life, hadn’t gotten lost in a maze of tunnels that had seemed like it would never end...</p><p>Not going back to the Institute for the day was certainly a blessing in many ways, but it was also a curse in that Martin had to find things to do with himself to fill the time he usually spent at work, find ways to distract himself from the darker side of his own thoughts and the fear that lingered even after a new day had dawned.</p><p>He could use groceries, he supposed, given that the food in the flat consisted of a handful of cans he hadn’t gotten to when Jane Prentiss had finally let him go and he was <em>not</em> going to eat another can of peaches in his life, even if it killed him-</p><p>Which brought Martin back to thinking about the whole ghost conversation again.</p><p>Admittedly, while Martin wasn’t willing to concede just yet, there was some solid evidence in support of Jon’s side of the argument. Ghosts didn’t need to eat, but Martin was starving right about now, having skipped- two? three? meals in all the hubbub. Ghosts didn’t need to sleep either, but he was exhausted both physically and emotionally, and the last thing Martin wanted to do was trudge through a store grabbing supplies to keep him going, even though he knew he’d have to do it eventually. Ghost didn’t- didn’t scrape their knees, or wince when they used peroxide on their wounds, or breathe way too loudly in their too-small flats, or get their clothes covered in sweat because they were still wearing jumpers in July-</p><p>Oh God, he was still wearing the same sweaty, bloodstained clothes he’d been wearing since the morning before, wasn’t he? Changing out of those had to be a priority, for hygiene’s sake if nothing else.</p><p>The clothes in his closet seemed oddly foreign, a wardrobe that he’d handpicked yet that he hadn’t worn in months, which was the sort of luxury Martin was very much not accustomed to, being more prone to wearing everything he had in rapid succession until he was wearing something patently ridiculous on laundry day. He wasn’t too far from that point now, truth be told, given that laundry was another thing he hadn’t bothered doing in between Prentiss leaving and him heading to the Institute, but the tank top he ended up picking out wasn’t too ratty, though it was a rather loud shade of lime green, and his shorts were just worn enough to be comfortable.</p><p>While in the closet, Martin came across the spider that lived inside it, and had for some months now--going on a year, he supposed, when you added in the months he’d been gone. The little guy--or girl, he didn’t actually know and didn’t want to assume either way--had been building a web in one of the far corners he never used much anyway, and Martin had started joking to himself that the spider was his roommate, even going to far as to name them George. (Not the most gender-neutral name, admittedly, but he reasoned that it could be short for Georgia or something similar if need be--and he wasn’t even sure it was always the same spider, let alone what gender that spider was, and it’s not like the <em>spider</em> was going to mind if he inadvertently misgendered them.)</p><p>The web had grown a bit in Martin’s absence, though it was still tucked away enough that he wouldn’t have to brush against it in order to reach any of his things.</p><p>And George lay dead at the foot of the web they had built.</p><p>“Oh, George.” Martin said quietly as he crouched down to get a better look. He couldn’t tell the cause of death at a glance. It didn’t look like he’d stepped on George when examining his wardrobe options in the closet, which would’ve been Martin’s first guess; George wasn’t flattened or crushed like would have been the case then, just very, very still with their legs curled tightly around them.</p><p>Martin didn’t know what species of spider George was, or what kind of lifespan George had had to look forward to. Maybe it was just George’s time... but it felt wrong, somehow, felt like a bad omen or a small fragment of a bigger picture he couldn’t quite piece together.</p><p>Then Martin’s stomach gurgled rather loudly, and he remembered that it had been far too long since he’d eaten, which probably was contributing to the exhaustion that felt like it sank into his very bones.</p><p>A trip to the grocery store would take more time and effort than he felt like expending right now, and eating the handful of canned goods he still had stocked was right out, so Martin settled on ordering a pizza delivered to his flat. Not the most budget-friendly option, but... maybe if he was lucky, Elias would give them all hazard pay for yesterday? They’d certainly earned it...</p><p>Martin’s fingers brushed gently against those of the delivery man as he grabbed the pizza out of his hands, and for a single horrible instant he thought the delivery man was going to keel over, his touch being as deadly to the stranger handing over a pizza as it had been to the worms back in the tunnels, but instead the delivery man just gave him a weird look and left rather hastily.</p><p>It was probably just hunger, or relief at having made it through Prentiss’ attack, or some combination of the two, but Martin could swear that that was the best pizza he’d ever eaten.</p><p>When he disposed of the empty box, still tired but at least full once more, Martin noticed that there were no ants visible on his counter. Good. Maybe his impromptu attack had done more to ward them off than he’d expected.</p><p>After that... it was the middle of the afternoon, and Martin knew he should do more with the day, but he couldn’t stand sitting around and overthinking things any further, so he just closed the shades and took a nap instead.</p><p>At least this time, he knew the nightmares were coming.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin hadn’t meant for the nap to take terribly long, but by the time he woke up, free of the dreams filled with worms and pain and Jon once more, it was getting close to dawn. Earlier than he’d normally wake up, certainly, but late enough that going back to sleep seemed unlikely to be worth the trouble.</p><p>It was a Sunday, but while most of the Institute staff might have worked a regular Monday to Friday, 9 to 5 workweek, the archives staff rarely bothered restricting their work hours in the same way, and Martin decided that he was going to work today just the same. He didn’t want to spend another day moping in his flat, stuck inside his own head. Yesterday had been strange and miserable enough.</p><p>In the wee hours of the morning, Martin did a little of the cleaning that he’d been unable to do earlier. He finally disposed of the garbage that had been sitting in his flat since Jane Prentiss attacked--the garbage bag was covered in ants, and Martin had to stand there and take several deep breaths before recognizing that all the ants were well and truly dead and the rancid smell was coming from the garbage itself rather than from them, but he did run it out to the nearest dumpster in the end. He went through the handful of letters, mostly junk mail, that had arrived in his absence. He dusted, he swept the floors, he even got rid of what remained of George and their web in the corner of his closet.</p><p>It still felt weird, being back in his flat, but at least the place felt a little more livable now. He still might want to move to a place that didn’t come with memories of a flesh worm siege someday, but given that he still had yet to handle doing laundry and groceries, Martin figured flat hunting was going to have to wait for some time still. Baby steps first.</p><p>Speaking of which, if he was going to work today, he would have to... actually get ready for work first.</p><p>Martin went back in the closet, dug through the clean bits of his wardrobe before settling on a puce polo shirt that had never been his favorite but did at least fit reasonably well and a pair of dark slacks that had a small hole near the bottom of the right leg but it was fine, nobody would notice, he’d be <em>fine</em>.</p><p>Jon and Tim, at least, presumably wouldn’t be there to notice anyway.</p><p>(And if they were, Martin would try his best to convince them not to stay there, because with injuries like that neither of them had any business returning to the archives in less than a week’s time after the attack, let alone a mere two days afterwards.)</p><p>Breakfast was still something he didn’t have a ton of options for in his flat, so Martin went to a nearby cafe instead, playing with his food more than eating it as he nursed a cup of tea and tried not to think too hard about everything and failed miserably.</p><p>Had life grown this complicated overnight, or had things always been this complicated, and he’d just never noticed?</p><p>But the worst of it was over now, Jane Prentiss was dead and the only injury he’d gotten out of it was a scraped knee that barely even ached anymore, Martin just needed to get on with his life already...</p><p>Things should be back to normal. Things shouldn’t be this difficult anymore.</p><p>And yet, knowing that didn’t seem to help in the slightest.</p><p>Time went by, the sun rose, the cafe Martin had chosen grew crowded with other patrons, and eventually he decided to give in and head to work, though part of him hated that he was leaving so much uneaten food behind, hated that he had spent so much money on a breakfast that he had barely even touched.</p><p>Tim and Jon weren’t in, as Martin had predicted, but apparently Sasha had beaten Martin to the archives that day, coffee in hand. Martin wondered, idly, if she had been in the day before as well, and almost asked her as much before deciding that doing so was likely to start a conversation he’d rather not face head-on quite so soon.</p><p>Was there something different about her, or was he imagining it, mind running wild once again? Martin tried to tell if she looked any different, had changed her appearance in some way, but he didn’t notice anything right off the bat and didn’t want to just sit there and stare...</p><p>As Martin settled into his seat, his desk next to Sasha’s, he asked, “Sasha, did you get your hair cut?”</p><p>Sasha ran one hand through her short, blonde curls before looking back at Martin, her eyes lighting up as they met his. “Yes, yes I <em>did</em> get my hair cut! I’m glad you noticed!”</p><p>“Ah, that’s it! It looks nice.” Martin didn’t actually remember her hair looking that different before--perhaps it had been only a trim, and a lucky guess on his part?--but it did look nice, a cute little bob that suited her well.</p><p>“Thank you, Martin. That’s very nice of you to say.”</p><p>Martin could feel his cheeks warming slightly, probably another awkward blush of the sort that came so easily to him as he stammered out, “It- it’s nothing. It’s just true, is all.”</p><p>“Yes, well, thank you still.”</p><p>Martin nodded before turning on his computer and getting to work. Luckily, there was enough of a backlog that even without Jon present to thrust more work upon them, there was plenty for Martin to do during the day, especially since Sasha’s computer kept giving her weird errors and glitching out when she tried to use it for her research. It felt like... like just another day at work, really. The calm after the storm, perhaps? Things starting to return to normal?</p><p>Or a new normal, at least. One where Martin could swear he still could catch the scent of worm carcasses decaying within the archives, where Jon and Tim were still out for who knows how long and would return with the signs of the injuries Martin had somehow avoided... just him and Sasha down here, in a place filled with memories Martin would rather forget...</p><p>“Are you alright?”</p><p>Martin blinked, his train of thought derailing as Sasha’s speech pulled him out of his research and his own anxieties and back to the here and now, trying his best to force some levity into his response. “Well, I wasn’t eaten alive by worms, so I can’t complain, really, can I?”</p><p>“I mean, yes, that’s true, but...” Sasha looked uncomfortable, but that was understandable enough. She’d been through much of the same stuff as Martin had been, had ran for her life and barely escaped death by worms in the process, though the details differed. Besides, Sasha had never been the emotional sort, really, so if <em>she</em> was asking about his feelings, he must really come off as an emotional wreck. “Are you <em>alright</em>? Because you seem... you seem not alright. Today, specifically.”</p><p>“I...” Martin took a deep breath and let it out before answering. “I mean, things have been rough, I suppose? You know, it’s, it’s a lot to take in, a lot happened <em>really</em> fast there. And it’s weird with just us here now and all that. But I’ll be fine, I’m sure. Just need to give it some time, I suppose.” Martin hesitated for a moment before adding, “Are <em>you</em> alright, Sasha?”</p><p>“Yes--well, as much as can be expected...” Sasha started playing absentmindedly with one of her curls, her eyes darting away from Martin’s and towards her glitching computer screen. “You’re probably right. Time will help, I think. And the others getting back, too.”</p><p>“Right. Just got to- to keep plugging along until then, right?”</p><p>As Martin looked over at Sasha, who quietly echoed his “right,” he wished that he felt as certain about things getting better as the grin he’d forced onto his face would suggest.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Work was... work, same as always. It helped take Martin’s mind off things, at least, even though he was sure he probably wasn’t doing things as well as others would in his position, or even as well as he had before... well, before Jane Prentiss entered the picture.</p><p>Jon would probably find his work riddled with errors and yell at him when he got back. But that was fine. Wouldn’t be the first time Jon complained about his work, and at least this time he had an excuse for not being at his best.</p><p>(And at least he’d be seeing and hearing Jon again, even if it was in a less than ideal context.)</p><p>The day went by quickly enough, and after Martin left work in the evening he forced himself to make that overdue trip to the grocery store, which really wasn’t as painful as he’d feared and meant that he could actually make himself a decent dinner rather than ordering food or eating out of a can again.</p><p>The bags under his eyes grew after another night of restless sleep filled with nightmares, but he could manage. They’d go away with time, like he’d said to Sasha, right? They had to. And besides, if <em>he</em> was having nightmares over all this, Jon and Tim had to have it ten times worse... no use feeling sorry for himself when he knew others were worse off.</p><p>Monday started off more or less the same as Sunday had. Martin ate breakfast in his flat instead of at a cafe, but still ended up having to dispose of a good portion of it, having once again overestimated his current appetite. Sasha’d beaten Martin to the archives again, fresh coffee in hand; Martin got her a cup of tea when she ran out of coffee, and her appreciative smile brightened up the day some, though they didn’t chat all that much.</p><p>Jon and Tim were still out, which was no surprise--it would probably be weeks before they were fully recovered, and if one of them tried to come back before then (probably Jon, workaholic as he was), Martin was fully prepared to ream them out for it. He knew well enough the toll that working when not entirely healthy could take on a person, and he wasn’t going to let them do that to themselves.</p><p>...even if that meant the archives were even quieter than normal because of it.</p><p>What ended up standing out about Monday hadn’t seemed like anything remarkable at first. Martin was just fetching a book that might give useful context for a recent statement; either one of them could have gotten it, really, but Martin knew that Sasha had trouble reaching the top shelf of some of the Institute’s bookshelves while he could do so with ease, so it made sense that he do it just in case. As luck would have it, the book turned out to be on one of the lower shelves, which meant that he’d had to do some scanning of the bookshelf to locate it-</p><p>-and, while scanning the bookshelf, Martin noticed a crack in the wood around eye level, and suddenly remembered that he’d been the one that put it there. He’d been running a bit too fast through the Institute’s halls and rammed into the bookshelf, and the bookshelf had toppled over in turn, and it had taken hours to get all the books put back in their proper places, and apparently even after that he’d damaged the bookshelf in the process, hadn’t even noticed it at the time...</p><p>Martin’s thoughts raced, and he couldn’t even place them all, but the gist was clear enough: His clumsiness had hurt this bookshelf, his clumsiness had nearly cost him his life down in the tunnels (<em>should</em> have cost him his life, really, if the worms hadn’t reacted so bizarrely to getting the chance to attack him), his clumsiness could easily have taken his coworkers down with him...</p><p>He could have <em>killed</em> them. They could have <em>died</em> because of him.</p><p>(They didn’t, of course, but that was just dumb luck, wasn’t it? He couldn’t take credit for that.)</p><p>And he hadn’t even noticed the bookshelf getting damaged, couldn’t even fully remember how it had happened. What else had he damaged without even realizing it? What other harm had he caused without even blinking an eye?</p><p>Martin didn’t know how long he was lost in his thoughts, his vision narrowed down to that crack in the bookshelf’s wood, but he knew that what startled him out of it was a hand being pressed gently but firmly against his back and a familiar voice calling out “Martin?”</p><p>Martin blinked a few times before looking over to the source of the voice. He couldn’t remember seeing Sasha look so visibly concerned before (well, with one notable exception, one he’d rather not dwell upon any further).</p><p>And... god, his jumper (which he had worn in disregard to the summer weather because it felt <em>right</em>, somehow, and also because he really needed to do laundry and was rapidly running out of work-appropriate clothing) was sopping wet, his cheeks were covered in tears and he could taste snot and... and he was a blubbering mess, now, wasn’t he? Another thing he hadn’t even realized until it was too late.</p><p>“Martin, just... just try to calm down, alright?”</p><p>Martin nodded weakly and tried to focus on his breathing, on the warmth of Sasha’s hand, on how her long fingernails were pressing into his shoulder. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Deep breath in, deep breath out...</p><p>“Can you tell me what happened?”</p><p>Deep breath in, deep breath out.</p><p>Martin pointed at the crack in the wood. “I... I put that there.” God, his voice was shaky. He sounded pathetic. “Not today, a while back, I just... I never noticed.”</p><p>And suddenly his thoughts flipped from feeling like he could have ended the world and everything bad that happened was his fault to feeling like he was making a big deal over nothing, which didn’t actually make him feel any better, because it didn’t change that he was a blubbering mess standing... no, sitting on the floor next to a cracked bookshelf, and Sasha--<em>Sasha</em> of all people, who’d never cared much for emotions generally, her mind staying focused on logic instead--was the one that had to calm him down out of some sort of nervous breakdown over it.</p><p>“‘m sorry.”</p><p>“It’s alright.” Sasha said. “Don’t apologize. You’re fine. It’s alright, really.”</p><p>But Martin knew better. He <em>wasn’t</em> fine, and it <em>wasn’t</em> alright, really, was it?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sasha’d gotten the book off the bookshelf, in the end. Martin had managed to calm down with her help, though he still couldn’t shake the feeling that things weren’t okay, that something was deeply wrong, but that was probably just a trauma thing, right? Natural enough given the circumstances.</p><p>Sasha and Martin didn’t say a word to each other about his little breakdown after they got back to work, and that was probably for the best. It barely even made sense to <em>him</em>; he didn’t need to try to explain his muddled thoughts to Sasha as well. Hell, that might even be enough to get his thoughts spiraling the same way all over again...</p><p>Martin avoided that particular bookshelf after that. Luckily it was a bit out of the way, a bit hidden from view unless you were seeking it out, and besides, with Sasha’s computer problems getting worse instead of better, he was spending most of his time doing research on his own computer rather than hunting down physical copies of books anyhow.</p><p>Things started to settle into a rhythm, one that wasn’t the same as before, but one that would do just the same. Just Martin and Sasha in one large, quiet room in the archives, doing their work and occasionally exchanging pleasantries.</p><p>Martin didn’t know all the medical details of what Jon and Tim had gone through, but from what he’d seen of them after the worm attack, it would probably be a while before the two of them were ready to come back to work. At the earliest, assuming they’d actually taken medical advice to heart and spent their time resting and healing properly (which, given what he knew about Jon and Tim, was far from a guarantee), they’d definitely need at least a week of solid rest before coming back to work. Anything less than that would be risking their health, endangering themselves in the name of the Institute.</p><p>But all things considered, given what Martin knew about him as a person, it wasn’t a total surprise that Jon tried to come back to work all of five days after the attack.</p><p>It almost seemed like he was trying to hide it. Jon didn’t greet Martin or Sasha, didn’t make some grand announcement about returning; Martin didn’t even remember seeing him arrive in the morning, just knew that he’d passed by Jon’s office and the door was closed and the light was on and <em>no, he wouldn’t, would he?</em></p><p>(He would, as it turned out.)</p><p>Martin eased the door open and Jon was inside, every bit as covered in worm holes as the last time Martin had seen him (though at least they weren’t so bloody now), frantically scribbling something on a notepad while looking back at his computer every so often. His eyes looked slightly off, slightly unfocused. He definitely shouldn’t be back at work yet, and yet, here he was.</p><p>“Jon, what are you doing?”</p><p>Jon’s eyes darted away from his computer and up towards Martin, his reply curt. “Working.”</p><p>Martin considered a few different responses--rolling his eyes, snorting, sighing--before settling on a simple, exasperated “Jon...”</p><p>“Martin.” Jon’s tone of voice made it sound like Martin was the one in the wrong here, somehow, but Martin wasn’t going to go along with that this time.</p><p>“Did Elias say you could come back to work today?”</p><p>That seemed to strike a nerve; Jon gritted his teeth and avoided making eye contact with Martin, his hesitation to respond in and of itself a response.</p><p>“Elias doesn’t have to know <em>everything</em>.” Jon finally spat out.</p><p>“Jon, he’s your boss-”</p><p>“And I’m yours, so drop it. I’ll be <em>fine</em>.”</p><p>“Did a medical professional tell you that?”</p><p>Jon let out a long, deep sigh. “Just give it a rest, Martin, will you?”</p><p>“You’re the one who needs to be giving things a rest right now!” The words tumbled out before Martin had entirely thought them through, but he didn’t regret them either. “You- you know how much it bugs you when I bring up the whole thinking I was a ghost thing?”</p><p>Jon groaned theatrically and pressed his hands against his face.</p><p>“Well, trust me when I say it’d bother me a lot more if you actually become one on my watch.”</p><p>Jon set his hands down again, throwing Martin a dark glare. “I’m not going to die just because I came to work earlier than the doctors would like-”</p><p>“You don’t know that! You <em>can’t</em> know that!” Martin was looking Jon straight in the eye now, but Jon wasn’t the first person he’d had to talk to about health problems and the precautions they necessitated, either. He’d had this talk before, knew it well enough, though giving it to his boss was a new wrinkle. “Do you know how many germs there are on- on every surface around you? How just one of them getting into your system could change your life forever? How vulnerable you are right now-”</p><p>“I get the point.”</p><p>“Well, clearly you don’t, because you’re still <em>here</em>.”</p><p>Martin paused for a moment as he considered his next words.</p><p>“If you stick around for much longer, I’ll shred that notepad the minute you’re not looking.”</p><p>Jon looked down at the notepad in question, one hand moving to cradle it protectively, before locking eyes with Martin once more. “You wouldn’t.”</p><p>Martin didn’t waver, didn’t so much as blink. “I don’t want to, but it’s better than letting you endanger yourself.” Another brief pause, a moment of hesitation before adding, “And I’ll tape over every one of your recordings with a detailed journal of the thoughts of one Martin Blackwood, post mortem.”</p><p>Jon snorted. “Christ, you sound like <em>Tim</em>.”</p><p>“Is that supposed to be a bad thing?”</p><p>Jon hesitated before giving a noncommittal shrug, and that... that hurt to see. Weren’t Jon and Tim friends, after all? They had been before moving to work in the archives together, even, hadn’t they? Weren’t they all <em>friends</em> down here?</p><p>Or had that fallen apart along with everything else when Prentiss attacked?</p><p>“Fine, fine, you win.” Jon stood up, roughly shoving his chair aside as he started to move towards the door. “I’ll go home and sit around bored out of my mind for a few more weeks. Are you happy now?”</p><p>Martin knew it was intended as a rhetorical question, but he still answered it in a way with a noncommittal shrug of his own. Part of him wanted Jon to be around, sure, maybe even as much as Jon wanted to come back to work, but... but he couldn’t stand by and watch as someone took unnecessary risks with their health like that.</p><p>One ghost in the Archives was enough, after all.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Three days after Jon’s abortive attempt at returning to the Archives, Martin went to go make tea and realized as he was returning from the break room that he had unthinkingly made four cups of tea: one for himself, one for Sasha, and one each for Jon and Tim, who weren’t there to drink it.</p><p>This occurred to Martin only when he was already halfway back to the archives proper, after having gone through the steps of making each member of the archives staff’s tea just the way they liked it, balancing four cups of tea in his hands carefully, muscle memory having apparently been more powerful than the knowledge that it was still just him and Sasha down here and would be for the foreseeable future.</p><p>Upon realizing what he’d done, Martin stopped in his tracks to let out a long, frustrated sigh before continuing to trudge forward.</p><p>He wasn’t going to pour it out, let perfectly good tea get wasted that easily, and the only alternative Martin could think of was moving forward and hoping that he and Sasha could figure out how best to distribute the excess, so that he did, setting the four cups down carefully upon reaching Sasha’s desk.</p><p>Sasha looked up as he did, the sound of clattering mugs apparently enough to get her attention, but though her eyes were filled with questions she voiced none of them, instead merely staring up at Martin silently waiting for his explanation.</p><p>Martin could feel his cheeks grow warm and red as he stuttered out, “I- I forgot Jon and Tim weren’t here, so... so now I guess we’ve got extra tea.” Martin looked down at the cups of tea he’d brought over, running his finger in circles around the rim of the mug that he’d made for himself as he continued speaking, not meeting Sasha’s eyes. “I can take Jon’s, I’m not too fussed about that, and Tim’s is almost the same as yours anyhow, though I can run back and get more cream for you if you’d like?”</p><p>Sasha remained silent for a long moment, and Martin wondered if he’d made a misstep somewhere. She probably didn’t even want a second cup of tea, cream or no cream, but what else was he going to do with it all? And he knew he’d messed up, knew he’d made a mistake in unthinkingly making tea for people who weren’t there to drink any, but if she was going to shove that in his face, on top of everything else-</p><p>“It’s fine, I can live without the cream.” Sasha said. “I don’t mind, really.”</p><p>Martin let his eyes inch back towards Sasha’s. “A-alright. If you’re sure.”</p><p>“Yes, I’m sure, it’s not a problem.” And then, with eyes sparkling and a hint of a laugh in her voice, “Martin, you’re so <em>nice</em>.”</p><p>“Um, thanks?”</p><p>That sounded awkward. Martin took a deep breath and tried again. “Thanks for that, but really you’re doing me a favor here, since I’m the idiot who went and made twice the tea we needed-”</p><p>“Really, I mean it, Martin. You’re a nice person. <em>Such</em> a nice person!”</p><p>Martin could feel the red returning to his cheeks, though the reason behind it wasn’t quite as simple as mere embarrassment this time. “It’s just <em>tea</em>.”</p><p>“It’s a nice gesture, though. And you do it all the time. I’ve <em>noticed</em>.” Sasha paused and leaned a bit closer to Martin, looking to both sides theatrically as if anybody besides the two of them would have a reason to be down here now to overhear them, before adding, “Can I tell you a secret?”</p><p>Martin had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew where this was heading and it was nowhere he wanted to go, but he didn’t want to just shut Sasha down entirely, either. “I mean, I guess? No promises about how I’ll react, though.”</p><p>“That’s fair.” A brief pause, then: “When we first met, I didn’t think you’d be nice at <em>all</em>.”</p><p>Martin laughed, without even really meaning to, partly out of relief, partly just out of sheer confusion, because that wasn’t what he had expected to hear even slightly.</p><p>“Seriously?”</p><p>“Seriously.”</p><p>“What made you think I wasn’t nice? I-is somebody spreading nasty rumors about me? Because I’ll go hunt them down, I-”</p><p>Sasha’s “please don’t” was quiet and rushed and passionate and above all sincere, and that was what threw Martin off most of all.</p><p>“...see, I was joking, but now you’ve got me actually worried about that.”</p><p>“Nobody’s spreading bad rumors about you, Martin. Don’t go hunting anybody down, alright?” Sasha looked entirely too concerned about the possibility of Martin actually hunting down an office rumor-monger, which would be funny if it weren’t so disconcerting.</p><p>“Fine, sure. What was it then? Because whatever made you think I wasn’t nice, I’d like to make sure I don’t repeat it.” Martin mentally ran through his first day working with Sasha, trying to think of any time he might have come off badly, and while he could think of plenty of flaws he’d made that day, they all connected to incompetence or lack of intelligence or a dearth in professionalism or something of that vein, not... not <em>intimidation</em>. Not <em>not being nice</em>.</p><p>“...promise not to laugh?”</p><p>“Promise.”</p><p>“You just... it’s hard to explain, but you just sort of... gave off bad vibes? I don’t know how else to say it, something about you just felt <em>off</em>.”</p><p>“I had bad vibes. <em>That’s</em> why you thought I wasn’t nice.” Martin wasn’t laughing--he wasn’t going to break his promise that easily--but he wasn’t understanding what Sasha was getting at here either. “Bad vibes” sounded like something Tim would say as a joke, not something Sasha would say in all seriousness.</p><p>“Yes! You still kind of do, honestly? But I’m ignoring it because now I know that’s just you, and you’re nice.”</p><p>“And you can’t tell me <em>why</em> I gave off these bad vibes, I don’t suppose?”</p><p>“Not in the slightest.”</p><p>Martin started absentmindedly tapping his foot against the floor. “Do you get bad vibes from anyone else around here, or is it just me for some reason?”</p><p>“Mostly just you.” Sasha paused for a moment, scrunching up her face in thought, before adding, “Maybe Jon a little?”</p><p>“That’s probably just Jon, then.”</p><p>“And Elias, I think, too.”</p><p>Martin let out a soft laugh. He wasn’t laughing at Sasha, exactly, so it didn’t count as breaking his promise, right? “That’s <em>definitely</em> just Elias.”</p><p>“Well, then, two out of three isn’t too bad, hmm?”</p><p>“I suppose not, but still not the <em>greatest</em> odds either. Though I might be a bit biased there, I suppose.” Martin hesitated before adding, “Just don’t go basing any research off of how your vibes feel around people.”</p><p>“Can you imagine?” Sasha’s face filled with a wicked grin. “Imagine Jon’s face when I give him a report and when explaining why I started looking into things, I just put ‘her vibes were terrible.’“</p><p>“I will pay you to do that. I would pay actual money to see Jon’s reaction to that.”</p><p>“Maybe when he gets back then.”</p><p>The smile that had been sneaking onto Martin’s face came off in an instant. “Yeah, maybe when Jon gets back.”</p><p>Martin picked up two cups of tea, the one he’d made for himself and the one originally meant for Jon, and headed back to his own desk with them. “Anyway, enjoy your tea, Sasha.”</p><p>“I will.”</p><p>As Martin began to turn back to his work, Sasha asked him, “Martin, you don’t get bad vibes from <em>me</em>, do you?”</p><p>Martin hesitated, mostly because he still wasn’t even sure what Sasha even meant by “vibes” in the first place, before giving the first response that came to mind.</p><p>“Sasha, your vibes are <em>fantastic</em>.”</p><p>Sasha grinned again, gently, before turning away. “Glad to hear it.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you liked this, consider following me on tumblr at <a href="https://haberdashing.tumblr.com/">haberdashing</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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